


One Toke Over The Line

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Hypnotism, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Conditioning, Recreational Drug Use, Sloppy Makeouts, parasite eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: Ocelot and Kaz get high, as you do.





	One Toke Over The Line

It’s nearly 4am, and Commander Miller can’t sleep.

He tosses and turns in his bed. The sheets are starting to get bunched up under his body. No matter how much he flips it, his pillow always feels warm and shapeless. His missing limbs ache - not mindsearingly so, but enough to keep him tense, keep his jaw locked.

Also, he’s hungry. On another night he’d try to sleep through it, but right now the fact he barely had any dinner is making his stomach feel tight and hollow. He could kill for some garlic bread. Maybe there’s still some soup leftover in the mess hall....

But the thought of putting on clothes, and worst of all his leg, has been keeping him in his increasingly uncomfortable bed for the best part of an hour. He was on his feet a lot today, and his stump is so swollen and sore every step would be agony.

He finally rolls up into a sitting position after a particularly loud growl from his stomach. The mess hall is not _that_ far. Maybe he can make it without the leg.

He shuffles into his sweatpants on the floor, pulls them up with some effort, slips into the one sneaker he uses to work out. Doesn’t bother putting anything over his undershirt. It’s been hot and sticky for over a week now. It’ll be nice to feel some air on his skin.

His hips stab pain all the way into his lungs with every limping hop down the hallway. He’s so sore and tense and everything hurts. He hates it, this wreck of a body, this heat that’s making him bloated and dizzy.

He’s grateful almost nobody is around as he crosses the lower inner tower. The mess hall is almost deserted. Too early for most people to be up, not late enough that the night guard shift is turning in. A couple of insomniac Intel Division Diamond Dogs compare notes over coffee. A young, cute medic pokes a plate of pasta listlessly. Kaz punches in his special code to get access to the kitchen. He doesn’t need people to look at him while he stuffs his face with cold cuts at four in the morning. One of the little advantages of being an officer. The kitchen is blissfully dark but still warm - it hasn’t closed too long ago. Kaz steps into the walk-in fridge and sighs happily. Leaning against a crate of milk boxes, he shoves his hand into the large metal containers lining the shelves, grabs cheese slices, ham, some sliced tomatoes. Some get popped into his mouth directly. Some others he carries out, a little awkwardly, to the spot on the counter ruled by the leftovers of Mad Dingo’s infamous sunflower seed rye bread, already sliced but not stale just yet. He assembles a quick sandwich, and the first bite is pure joy.

After he’s done, he goes back into the fridge with a mug hanging from two fingers. They had gazpacho tonight, and he knows there has to be some left. It’s cool and spicy, with enough garlic to ward off vampires for a lifetime. It’s perfect.

He’s sipping it against a counter when he finally notices the dark shape on the small deck outside the kitchen the cooks use mostly for smoking. He tenses for a second before he sees the pale smoke and the silver hair.

Apparently Ocelot had the munchies.

“You got nothing better to do than getting high in the kitchen?” he grunts, knocking the door open with his hip.

Ocelot looks up at him with hooded, bloodshot eyes. “’scuse me, Miller. I’m _outside_ the kitchen.”

Kaz rolls his eyes.

“You want some?” says Ocelot airily, gesturing with the hand holding the joint. It’s thick as a cigar, the smell sweet and cloying.

“No thanks.”

Ocelot smiles. “Still being stubborn? You never had a problem with drugs when we were...”

“That’s none of your business,” he cuts him off. He does not want to be reminded of the many, many incredibly stupid things they’ve done while high in the past decade.

“It’d help with the pain, is all I’m sayin’.” Ocelot’s drawl is slow as molasses when he’s stoned.

“I don’t need help with it.” Pain keeps him sharp. Pain keeps him focused. Pain keeps him....

...awake at night, sore and exhausted, envious of Ocelot’s pale, bare feet swinging in the breeze as he dangles his legs over the railing.

He sighs. “Scoot over.”

***

Miller hesitates. Ocelot can see it. He’s not wearing his leg. His stump must be swollen from the heat and the many, many hours they spent on their feet today. Even Ocelot’s feet hurt. He can’t even imagine what stepping on that old thing must be like.

Then he sighs. “Scoot over.”

Ocelot does not, but he does help him sit down next to him. He’s heavy, but he’s carried him deadweight before. He smells like stale sweat, overpoweringly, but Ocelot has never minded. Once he’s sitting comfortably, he passes him the joint.

Miller tokes slowly, eyes closed, letting the smoke rest in his lungs before exhaling it into the night. He coughs a little as he passes it back.

“Pretty strong stuff.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less from my team.”

“Wait, you guys _grow_ this?”

Ocelot takes a nice long toke, lets it roll slowly out of his nose. “In the B4 greenhouses. I thought you knew.”

“How long have you been growing drugs on my base?” he growls.

“Since the beginning. It’s good for morale. And just for the record,” he circles Miller’s face with the joint, trailing smoke. “This is my base too. It’s ours, remember?”

Miller snags the joint out of his fingers. Ocelot smiles. He’s still as fast as he was with two arms. “At least run it through me first,” he mutters, smoke rising through his clenched teeth. “Who knows where you got this shit from.”

“It’s good though.” Ocelot leans back on his hands. His bare toes brush the empty leg of Miller’s pants. “Does miracles after a long day.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t agree, not outwardly, but he is starting to relax a little bit.

“I can hook you up with some. For when the pain’s really bad.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Alright.”

Ocelot closes his eyes as the joint is passed back to him. He thinks of Miller’s warm, warm body next to him, and tokes deeply. When he opens his eyes again, Miller has taken off his sunglasses, hooked them in his collar.

The dark shadows under his eyes are even deeper than Ocelot’s, his milky damaged eyes pink and swollen.

“You ever find out what happened to your eyes?”

He already knows, of course. Miller does not know that he knows.

Miller doesn’t look at him as he takes the joint and takes a long, deep hit.

“Parasites,” he hisses as smoke trickles through his lips, thick and white.

“My, my. We should put you in the brig.”

Miller rolls his eyes. It’s nice to see it happen rather than assume it, sometimes. “I’m not a fucking skulls reject. Overexposure to the mist. Cornea damage.”

“You can see, though.”

Miller smiles, but his pale eyes remain fixed on the horizon, hollow. “Not without my glasses, I can’t.”

Ocelot pinches the joint out of Miller’s lips. He can almost taste his nasty breath on it as he tokes. “What about seeing Quiet?”

Miller is quiet for a while. He leans against the railing, his eyes slipping closed. His lashes are so pale they’re white in the little moonlight from behind the tower. “You’d think the medical reports you’ve swiped would tell you in detail about it.”

Ah, busted. Ocelot chuckles. “What does it feel like?”

Miller opens his eyes, and they bore straight through him. They’re more than a little unnerving.

“It’s as if I can see colors I couldn’t see before. There’s animals that can do that, right?”

“A few. The Mantis shrimp, for example. They have four times the color receptors humans have, and some studies say they can tune their light wavelength sensitivity to suit their environment.”

Miller coughs a little laughter, and accepts the joint being slipped into his mouth. “I wish I could do that. It was hell when I first got here.” He dangles the joint over the railing. “You have no idea how many colors are in this smoke. Most of them I can’t even think of a name for.”

“Interesting,” he mutters, leaning a bit too close to take the joint back. He feels Miller’s stump pressed against his chest, warm and hard. “I wonder if drugs heighten that perception.”

Miller seems to be lost in watching the smoke. That’s a yes, then.

“What do I look like?” he asks, the last dregs of the smoke burning his lungs.

***

Kaz hasn’t been high in so long. He wasn’t expecting to go mellow this fast, but it has been what....over a year? And he’s considerably lighter in mass than he used to. The throb in his phantom limbs is not gone, per se, but has dulled, enough that his jaw is loosening. His eyes feel heavy. It’s nice. Maybe he should let Ocelot get him some weed from time to time, just to relax...

“What do I look like?”

Kaz trails his eyes down the long slope of Ocelot’s nose. How to explain this. How to explain that sometimes he sees more than one Ocelot, superimposed over each other. How to explain the black ichor that drips from him every time he comes back from a session in room 101.

How to explain the red trails that constantly reach for him, possessively and protectively, without letting Ocelot know that...well. He knows.

He’s not entirely sure Ocelot _himself_ knows, these days. His memory is sort of spotty in places, and Kaz suspects it’s not coincidence.

Right now he looks relaxed, though. He shimmers in the smoke, and his tongue as he licks the paper to roll a new joint is the pinkest thing Kaz has ever seen.

“You look good,” he mumbles. He chuckles. “You always look good.”

If things had gone differently, maybe he’d look good at his side.

But Snake came back. He saved him from hell, held his hand through the pain, kissed his tears through the nightmares. Snake is his destiny, Kaz is sure of it.

Ocelot lights the joint, taking a long, deep drag and letting the smoke out slowly. He smiles. “Flatterer.” He holds the joint out for Kaz. Kaz tries to reach for it with his right. Oh, right. He leans over instead, wraps his lips around the filter, pressed against Ocelot’s leather gloves, and inhales. The paper crackles fragrantly, and his lungs fill with cool smoke. Ocelot pulls the joint back.

And pulls Kaz forward with his free hand. Oh, right. He has two of those.

For a second Kaz is sure Ocelot is going to kiss him. But he stops just a breath away from his lips, close enough his peach fuzz is tickling his lips.

Kaz exhales a long trail of smoke into Ocelot’s mouth. He tries to pull back, but Ocelot holds him still, warm gloved fingers tangled in his hair around his ear, and blows the second hand smoke back into Kaz’s lungs.

What is it about shotgunning that makes it feel like it’s twice as potent? Kaz’s head is swimming instantly, and Ocelot’s fingers lingering on his jaw as he lets go burn like fire.

***

Ocelot is getting dizzy. It’s just the weed, he tells himself as he sits back against the railing, even though it isn’t.

It’s definitely not Kaz - _Miller’s_ taste so close to his mouth it’s making his stomach twist.

“Ocelot,” he sighs.

Ocelot hates the glimmer of pity in his eyes. He doesn’t need his pity. He’s okay. He’s _happy_ , happier than he’s ever been, _safe_ , among friends, and if sometimes his chest tightens for K-- _Miller_ , it’s none of his business.

He’s with the boss. He’s happy. They’re happy. Ocelot

~~made sure of it~~

the floor seems to be swaying. Ocelot grips the railing, suddenly nauseous.

“Are you okay?”

Something feels warm, and when he looks down, Ocelot realizes he’s crushed the joint between his fingers, embers sizzling into the leather of his gloves. He opens his hand, lets the remains drop down the several stories to the sea.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, fishing rolling paper and his baggie out of his shirt pocket. “It’s just been a long day.”

It has, hasn’t it? He can’t remember what he’s been doing most of the afternoon, though. He was in his office on the intel tower, listening to...what?

His fingers shake. Some tobacco and dried marijuana escape the paper.

It’s okay. He just had a little episode. It happens sometimes. Ocelot loses time, sometimes entire hours, doesn’t remember details or anything at all. It’s nothing serious. He’s just getting older, and his brain is starting to catch up with him. He lights the new joint. The drugs help. Not just the weed, obviously it’s not strong enough, but it helps too. Relaxes him. Grounds him when he’s too twitchy. Not too different from the boss’ cigar.

They’re not so different after all. Both damaged, both needing the same thing.

Miller doesn’t move away when he slumps against him.

His pale eyes are not showing pity when he trails his shaking fingers down his jawline. Ocelot can almost imagine the heated blue underneath the milky scars.

He’s not surprised, per se, when Kaz leans down to kiss him.

But he _is_ pleased.

***

Kaz hates how soft Ocelot’s lips are against his, how much he doesn’t feel like he should care about the thick taste of smoke and garlic on his tongue as he shoves it into Ocelot’s mouth.

He hates that he’s missed this.

He hates that he only has one hand to grip Ocelot’s shirt and pull him closer. He hates that even with his eyes closed he can feel the colors, burning so _bright_ , almost frightening in their intensity, colors he can’t even comprehend as Ocelot hungrily sucks on his tongue, palms at his cock under the sweatpants. His little breathy noises drag him right into another time, another life it feels like, when he was whole and felt unstoppable, when getting Ocelot moaning made him feel powerful instead of sad and confused.

“Miller,” he croaks when they part, his eyes blown and dark and tendrils of red wrapping all over Kaz like the slowly coiling tentacles of a hungry Kraken. He doesn’t say anything, just his name.

“Where did the joint go?” asks Kaz, a smile tugging at his lips that still tingle with the scrape of Ocelot’s embarrassing mustache.

Ocelot lowers his eyes to his empty hands, then leans over the railing to look, dumbly, into the darkness below. “Gone,” he finally says. “Whoops.”

“That’s alright. I think we’re high enough.”

“Probably.” He looks back at the dim kitchen through the door, and Kaz can see the tension in his body even as the tendrils cling to him more. “I should go.”

“Since when have you given a fuck about what you should do?” Kaz can’t believe he’s _flirting_. He thought that part of him had been mutilated along with his limbs, violated like his body. And yet. Here he is.

He just wants to kiss Ocelot for a little longer, is all.

***

“You have a point,” admits Ocelot, and loops his arms around him again.

It’s alright. He can deal with this feeling that he’s breaking an unbreakable rule, going against an absolute directive later, when Miller isn’t looking at him with those hooded eyes, smiling at him like _that_. They make out like old times, their asses going numb on the metal floor, Miller’s mouth languid and slow. At some point, as the sky is starting to gray at the horizon, the front of Miller’s sweatpants gets wet and slick under Ocelot’s hand, and his nails dig into the nape of Ocelot’s neck. Ocelot would leave it at that, but Kaz clumsily shoves his amputated leg between his thighs, and bites his neck, and whispers _come on, I don’t have all night, there you go, make me feel it_ and Ocelot happily rides his atrophied muscles to orgasm.

Miller chuckles as they finally part, sweaty and sticky.

“Been a while, huh?”

Ocelot feels ready for a nap as he disentangles himself from Miller and the railing, wobbling to his feet. He hasn’t felt this nice in a while. “Hm. Can you get back alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” He looks out at the rising sun, and then up to Ocelot. “Can you...get me some of that weed? It’s really nice.”

“Of course.” He caresses his jaw, softly, as if he needs to commit to memory the way his bruised lips look like a split ripe fruit, his tender, relaxed expression.

He’s in the perfect mental state. Ocelot stares deep into his eyes.

“Sleep, now,” he whispers, and Miller drops onto the deck like a sack of potatoes.

***

Kaz wakes, disoriented and with his back killing him, a wave of acid bubbling up his throat. He curls up on his side, blindly patting the bedside table for the painkillers, the antacids. He swallows the pills dry, gritting his teeth as his esophagus burns.

Teaches him not to keep snacks in his quarters. He should have gone to the mess hall after all.

Snake is off catching _geckos_ of all things. He thumbs his iDroid, wondering if Ocelot will bring him something to eat. Maybe some drugs from his special stock. He could use being a little high right now.

He stuffs the iDroid back under his pillow. Nah.

It’s better not to push the delicate balance they have.

Even if it makes his chest ache a little sometimes.

 

 

 

 


End file.
